


Retrace

by mrs_d



Series: Dead Ends [11]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Gen or Pre-Slash, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Podfic Available, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 08:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16573049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: “Who are you?” Sam exclaims, taken aback.“I’m Buffy,” says the young woman inexplicably.“Who?”“Slayer,” the vampire snarls, and lunges for her.“See? He gets it,” says the woman, who’s apparently Buffy.[originally written 2015]





	Retrace

“When do we start?”

With an effort, Steve tears his eyes away from the file that Natasha handed him. “We just did.”

Sam nods slowly. “Okay. So _where_ do we start?”

Steve sighs. He’s actually been thinking of this since he’d recovered enough to be bored in the hospital. He’s made lists in his mind of all the places Bucky might go; he’s planned routes to each one. So when Sam asks, he snaps the file shut, blocking out the pictures of someone he used to know, and turns to meet Sam’s steady gaze.

“Italy,” he says.

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay,” he says again, a little less certain this time. “Why?”  

Steve hesitates, wandering away from Fury’s phony grave, heading to a bench nearby in the shade. _In honor of Staff Sergeant Peter W. Hamsted_ , the bench says, and Steve wonders what Peter did to get a bench. The plaques never say; Steve’s spent hours at war memorials, tracing the names with his fingertips and wondering what KIA really means — did a shell reduce that soldier to bloody smoking pieces, or did that soldier fall into enemy hands? Was it slow, he wonders, did it hurt? Is there a body here to visit, or do people lay flowers over an empty space, the way they still do over his and Bucky’s graves?  

“Steve?” Sam prompts him, settling beside him on the bench. He’s a quiet, solid presence; Steve doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to find him.

“Italy’s where I started to lose him,” Steve replies, because he owes Sam the truth above all else. “When I got him out of Zola’s factory, when we got back to the base in Azzano where he was stationed, he wasn’t the same. He kept telling me he was. Didn’t want me to worry, I guess, but...”

He trails off, thinking of the haunted look behind Bucky’s bright eyes and reassurances. It never went away, no matter how many times Bucky told him he was fine. Since hearing Bucky speak for the first time in seventy years, it’s all too easy for Steve to call up the sound of his voice, uncomplicated by brainwashing and God knows what else: _Goddammit, Steve, do you have to be such a mother hen all the time?_

A few weeks ago, Steve had almost felt ready to smile at those memories, but now, with the wreckage in the river and this damn file in his lap....

“And there were other changes,” he goes on. Sam is still beside him. Waiting, listening. “The guys used to talk about his shooting, but that didn’t mean a thing to me — I wasn’t there before. What I noticed was how he never got cold. Not even when I did, which wasn’t often. And he didn’t sleep much. Didn’t seem to need it. We’d stay up, sometimes right till dawn, and it never seemed to affect him.”

Sam nods, and Steve can practically smell the smoke of the dying fire of their late-night strategy sessions, can hear the scrape of Bucky’s match as he lights up another cigarette from Steve’s ration. The brass had assumed Steve smoked like everyone else, and Steve, noticing how every other soldier in his unit always wanted more cigarettes, had never bothered to correct them. He wonders idly if anyone who studied him knew that, or if they’d perpetuated his lie of omission for all these years.

“So, you think maybe he’d head there, trying to retrace his steps,” Sam says after a moment of thoughtful silence. “Makes sense. If he’s looking for answers, Italy’s as good a place to start as any.”

“Aside from Brooklyn,” Steve mutters.

“We could head there first,” Sam reminds him. “Stake out your old neighborhood for a few days, see if he shows.”

Steve shakes his head. Nothing about his old neighborhood looks familiar anymore; he doubts Bucky will find any more comfort in that strange place than he does.

“His history with HYDRA started in Italy,” he says. “We can revisit the places we went as a team, right up to....”

He trails off again, but Sam nods like he knows what Steve can’t say. He probably does. “Italy it is.”

Sam stands, offering Steve a hand to help him up, hanging on a little too tight and a little too long, but Steve doesn’t mind. At all.

* * *

* * *

Sam talks Steve into spending some of his back pay on first class tickets, but as they’re boarding there’s a tightness in Steve’s shoulders that Sam can see from a mile away. It makes sense; Sam keeps forgetting, but Steve basically died in a plane crash, and their recent experience with the helicarriers probably hasn’t helped with the trauma. But he lets it be. Steve doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, and Sam doesn’t want to push. Like any other veteran he’s worked with, Steve’ll talk when he’s ready.

He seems to relax once they’re off the plane in Rome. He even lightens up enough to complain about the price of sunglasses when they pass a kiosk at the airport. Sam laughs and holds up a pair of Cap-themed glasses, sized for a child; Steve tells him he’d rather squint.

They check into their hotel, Steve doing most of the talking, since Sam’s Italian is pretty much limited to types of pasta. The smooth, musical syllables roll off Steve’s tongue; the clerk is charmed. But when they get to the room, Steve gets tense again. Sam unpacks his toiletries and hops in the shower, only to find Steve pacing around the room when he emerges.

So Sam suggests they go for a walk, check out the city. Steve smiles at him again, and it’s enough of a relief that Sam feels almost embarrassed about it.

The first order of business is lunch. They sit down on a sun-drenched patio, and Steve orders for them. Sam’s not gonna lie, he sees where the hotel clerk was coming from. He himself gets a little swoony hearing Steve talk, even when he knows he’s just asking if the lunch special has mushrooms or not.

Then, they wander. They try some gelato from a street vendor, buy a cappuccino that puts Starbucks very much to shame. Sam gets Steve to read and translate every plaque they see, even when there’s another plaque beside it in English. Steve rolls his eyes but does it anyway, which makes Sam laugh.

Sipping his delicious drink, craning his neck at the architecture, getting Steve to take his picture in front of really old things, Sam forgets for a few hours why they’re here, and he thinks that maybe Steve does, too. He’s certainly smiling a lot more than he was before, and, though he gets a little sentimental when they pass a war memorial, he seems lighter somehow.

The day after tomorrow, they’re heading to Azzano, where Steve and the USO stopped in 1943. Sam remembers reading about that fateful day in his history textbooks, and he’s pretty sure it isn’t going to be an easy trip down memory lane. For now, though, they’re tourists, and Sam lets himself enjoy it.

***

The sun seems to set way too early, and when the clock tells him it’s time to go to bed, Sam’s body disagrees. He watches Italian TV for a while, starts a stupid new match-3 game on his phone, but eventually he’s just staring at the ceiling. Steve is in the same boat, given the way that he’s pacing the hotel room again.

“Let’s go out,” Sam suggests finally. “See Rome’s nightlife.”

“It’s after three,” Steve protests. “There can’t be much life out there to see.”

“Hey, you never know,” says Sam. Anything to get them out of this room that had seemed so spacious when they checked in hours ago.

Steve agrees, but at the last minute he ducks back into the room to grab his shield, disguised in a huge messenger bag. Sam raises an eyebrow skeptically as he throws it over his arm.

“Just in case,” Steve says.

Sam can’t argue with that. They haven’t had the best of luck lately.

They walk a long time, talking about the weather, the time change, the stars — everything except what brought them here, and Sam can’t blame Steve for that. Eventually, as they’re going past a cemetery, they get onto the topic of pets. Steve admits that he’s been thinking about adopting a dog, except that his work schedule doesn’t really support pet ownership.

“You could always volunteer at a shelter,” says Sam. “Get your puppy fix, plus a photo op for the Avengers.”

This doesn’t seem to please Steve — he scowls.

“Or not,” Sam amends, his tone asking the question.

“No,” Steve says, but he sounds distracted. Sam realizes that he’s watching something out of the corner of his eye.

“What’s up?” Sam asks in a low voice.

“Somebody’s following us,” Steve replies, just as quiet. “A whole bunch of somebodies.”

“I don’t hear anything,” says Sam, trying to look where Steve’s looking without looking like he’s looking.

“I do.” Steve slows his pace, jerks his chin in the direction of the cemetery path.

Sam bends down with exaggerated casualness to tie his shoelace. “You sure that’s a good idea?” he mutters.

“No,” Steve admits, “but fewer civilians if it goes sideways.”

“All right,” Sam agrees. Even though he doesn’t see anyone on the street, he trusts Steve’s judgement.

He leads the way into the cemetery, strolling like he’s not tense from the neck down, like he’s just a man out for a walk. In a creepy cemetery. In the middle of the night. Because _that’s_ something he would do.

But it seems to work, because by the time they reach the first crossroads, Sam hears something, just behind and to his right. Steve lifts the flap of his giant messenger bag, his eyes darting around them quick like he’s watching shadows. He doesn’t pull the shield out; instead he moves so that he and Sam are back-to-back.

Sam catches movement in his peripheral vision. The flash of a white face around a tree trunk, there and gone.

“Muggers?” he whispers, even though the chill going down his spine suggests something else. It’s suddenly cold, and there’s a foul smell in the air.

Steve starts to reply, but a blur cuts him off, and a streak of red blood appears on his cheek. Suddenly there’s shouting in the trees around them, shrieks of laughter. Steve takes the shield out of his bag, adopts a fighting stance. Sam does the same, planting his feet and raising his fists.

Their attackers are on them in less than a minute. There’s a lot of them, half a dozen at least, and most of them are interested in Steve. Sam redirects a few of them, ducking and swinging. They’re fast and strong, given the way his teeth rattle from just one hit from his closest opponent. Sam swallows the faint taste of blood — it’s his lip, he thinks, which isn’t too serious — and finally gets one good hit in. When he does, the guy stumbles back, and Sam gets a good look at the guy’s face — it’s contorted somehow, with ridges over the eyes and a sneering mouth.

“Holy shit, you’re a vampire,” Sam shouts. His opponent takes advantage of his lapse in attention to get close.

“And you’re dinner,” he rasps, suddenly right up in Sam’s face.

He yanks Sam forward. All Sam can see is teeth. He hears Steve yell his name, but before he can intervene, a slender white hand with sparkling silver nails lands on the vampire’s wrist and easily breaks it. Sam frees himself, and he and the vampire both turn; the short woman next to them has long, blonde hair and a smirk on her glossy pink lips.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?” she asks.

“Who are you?” Sam exclaims, taken aback.

“I’m Buffy,” says the young woman inexplicably.

“Who?”

“Slayer,” the vampire snarls, and lunges for her.

“See? He gets it,” says the woman, who’s apparently Buffy. She blocks the vampire’s attacks easily, then raises her other hand, stabbing the vampire in the chest with something pointy. The vampire screams into dust.

“Whoa,” says Sam, taking a step back. “What the hell?” From his left, he hears Steve make a sound of surprise as well, as the vampires he was fighting growl and rush toward Buffy and Sam.

“Less talk, more fighting!” Buffy says quickly.

“Right,” says Sam, shaking himself back into action.

The vampires are swarming now, lots of them. They’re still mainly focused on Steve, but one skinny one comes in Sam’s direction. He kicks it in the chest, but it’s like hitting cement, Sam stumbles back more than it does. Meanwhile, Buffy kicks one, and it flies through the air, landing almost fifteen feet away.

“Can you decapitate people with that thing?” she calls to Steve.

“I’ve never tried,” Steve responds, sounding horrified even as he breaks a vampire’s nose with his fist.

“Now might be a good time to start,” Buffy suggests. She punctuates the sentence by stabbing another vampire in the chest — with a wooden stake, Sam realizes belatedly, when it explodes into dust.

The skinny one that Sam kicked a moment ago is back, snarling in his face. Sam grasps it by the shoulders and head butts the creature, which turns out to be a terrible idea. His forehead erupts in pain, and the vampire grins. Sam catches its next motion just in time, raising his arm to block. The scratch of the vampire’s nails is a hot line across his skin. As he backs up, Sam sees the vampire’s eyes track the blood, and its movements become frenzied, frantic.

“A little help here,” Sam manages to grunt as he fends it off — barely.

Buffy appears out of nowhere again and punches the creature so hard it stumbles backwards. Unfortunately, it’s holding onto Sam, so Sam falls with it. He lands hard against the vampire’s chest, and rolls away as a flash of brightly-colored vibranium comes down. With a sickening crunch, the vampire’s head separates from its body, and Buffy’s pulling Sam to his feet amidst a huge cloud of dust.

“Thanks,” he tells her, and nods to Steve, who’s staring at his shield like he can’t believe what it just did.

The vampires are dispersing now, and Buffy takes a second to aim before she tosses her stake after the biggest one. It flips, end-over-end through the air until it hits its mark, and the burly undead man explodes into dust.

“Whoa,” Sam breathes, even more impressed by her than he was before.

“Easy there,” calls a new voice. A thin man with British accent and a serious Billy Idol fashion vibe emerges from behind a statue nearby. “You could have hit me.”

“You could have helped,” Buffy points out shortly before she turns to Sam and Steve. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” says Sam. He wipes at the blood on his forearm — the cut’s not deep, thankfully, it’s just kind of messy. “Steve?”

“I’m fine,” Steve replies immediately. Like Sam, he’s bleeding, but it’s not serious. “What the hell just happened?”

Buffy shrugs. “Oh, you know, gangs on PCP.”

“Yeah, right,” Sam scoffs. “Those were vampires, weren’t they? I always wondered if they were real.”

He looks to Steve excitedly, but Steve’s looking away and doesn’t chime in.

“Give the boy a gold star,” says the Billy Idol wannabe. He strikes a match off a stone angel’s head and lights a cigarette. Over the glowing tip, he surveys Sam first, and then his gaze lands on Steve. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

“Spike,” Buffy says, “I’m pretty sure that’s Captain America.”

“Really,” says the... Spike? Did Sam hear that right?

“I guess the shield’s a dead giveaway, huh,” Steve says, but then Spike grins, and Steve’s eyes narrow. “Don’t _I_ know _you?”_  he adds.

Spike’s smile widens. “Wondered how long it’d take for you to catch on. Memory’s not what it used to be, is it, old man?”

“What are you talking about, Spike?” Buffy asks.

“Steve, do you know—” Sam starts to say.

“When did we meet?” Steve interrupts both of them. He’s frowning again.

“I think it was January,” Spike answers through a cloud of smoke, “1944.”

“I wasn’t in Britain then,” Steve says, sounding confused.

“Neither was I, mate,” says Spike, lowing his cigarette and smirking openly. “Colditz.”

Steve moves too fast for Sam to track — there’s a dull clank as the shield hits the ground, and then Steve’s got his fists balled up in Spike’s lapels, their faces only inches apart.

“I killed you,” Steve grits out through his teeth. “I shot you in the head, I watched you go down.”

Spike laughs. His face shifts — his eyes go yellow, his teeth sharpen — and then shifts back. “Guess it didn’t take.”

“Okay,” Buffy says, intervening as Steve pulls back his fist. She separates the two men with surprising ease. “That’s enough testosterone for one night.”

Steve’s still glaring, but he lets Buffy pull him back. “Nazi scum,” he mutters.

Sam’s eyes widen. “Nazi?” he repeats, and Steve nods.

“Spike, you were a _Nazi?”_ Buffy exclaims. “I should’ve let him hit you.”

“I wasn’t— I can explain,” Spike protests. “I wasn’t a Nazi.”

“You sure looked like a Nazi,” Steve puts in.

“Well, how do you think I got inside?” Spike counters. “It was a POW camp, they weren’t just gonna let some Brit wander in, now were they?”

“I should’ve let you hit him,” Buffy reiterates to Steve, crossing her arms.

“They captured me,” Spike goes on, sounding defensive. “The SS, in ’43. Ask Angel, he’ll tell you.”

“Uh huh,” says Buffy skeptically.

“So I went in, looking for some payback, and Mr. Patriotic here happens to arrive mid-slaughter,” Spike concludes. “You owe me for that jacket, by the way. Never did find another one like it.”

“What, they stop making ones with swastikas on them?” Steve says dryly.

Sam’s head is spinning; he knew they’d be reliving some of Steve’s war memories on this trip, but he wasn’t expecting this. Any of this.

“What were you doing at Colditz?” he asks Steve.

“Extraction of HYDRA intelligence,” Steve replies, matter-of-fact.

Spike scoffs. “Nice way of putting it. You kidnapped that guy.”

“He was already in prison,” Steve says. “Hitler locked him up when Schmidt went rogue, and the Allies treated him better than— oh, to hell with it,” he interrupts himself. “Why am I explaining this to you?”

“Spike has that effect on people,” Buffy sighs. “Unfortunately.”

“So,” Sam manages to say after a moment. He feels like he’s three steps behind in the conversation, and needs to clear some things up. “Vampires are real.”

“Yep,” says Spike. “Shocking, I know.”

“And you,” Sam adds, turning to Buffy. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but how are you able to fight them off so well?”

Buffy shrugs. “It’s what I do.”

“She’s a vampire slayer. _The_ Slayer, in fact,” says Spike, not unfondly. “There’s a lot of them now, but she’s the original.”

“Meaning...?” Sam prompts.

“Meaning she’s a lot stronger than she looks,” Spike replies. He extinguishes his cigarette on a nearby grave; both Steve and Buffy frown at him, but don’t comment.  

“So,” Sam says slowly, “if she’s a vampire slayer, and _you’re_ a vampire...”

“I know,” Buffy cuts him off. “It’s complicated. Spike’s a— he’s a good vampire,” she explains, though the look on her face tells Sam that she knows how it sounds. “He helps me fight. He kills demons and other vampires.”

“Like Blade,” Sam suggests, trying to understand.

“Exactly,” Spike says, pointing at him. “Exactly like Blade. Except for the daywalking bit, that’s just something they made up for the movies.”

“Who’s Blade?” Buffy asks.

“You know, Eric,” Spike replies, turning to her. “I introduced you last Christmas, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Buffy, and then she frowns. “I don’t think he liked me very much.”

“No, he didn’t,” Spike agrees carelessly.

“Wait,” Sam chokes, feeling left behind again. “Blade... is _real?”_

“He’s real,” Spike confirms. “And his story getting out, going public like that? Well, let’s just say he’s a bit of an inspiration.”

“What?” Sam says, or he thinks he says. The word may have come out a little strangled. He needs to sit down.

Luckily, Steve is there, reaching over to steady him. “It’s okay,” he reassures Sam in a low voice. “I had the same reaction when I found out about Dracula in ’43.”

“Dracula?” Sam repeats. His voice is a small squeak.

“That ponce,” Spike complains to Buffy. “You know, I saw him a few weeks back, in Moscow. He didn’t even say hello. Too good for me, I suppose.”

“Mm,” says Buffy vaguely. Her eyes are on Sam. “You gonna be okay?”

“Honestly,” says Sam, drawing in a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Steve agrees.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sam has to ask.

Steve looks away, shrugs. “When I woke up, Fury told me that a lot of the projects I was involved in have been declassified, but not all of them. There’s a whole list of things I can’t talk about, even after all this time.”

“I’m thinking vampires are at the top of that list?” Sam guesses.

Steve nods. “Unfortunately.”

“And even though you guys blew up SHIELD a few weeks ago,” Buffy says, “they’re still not common knowledge.”

“The Demon Research Initiative was buried pretty deep,” Steve agrees. “They still active?”

“Not really,” says Buffy. “Not as much as they were, anyway.”

“Good,” Steve says, with surprising vehemence. “I never liked their methods.”

Buffy and Spike both nod in agreement. “Preaching to the choir, mate,” says Spike. “Dirty bastards gave me this sodding chip—”

“Not now, Spike,” Buffy interrupts. She sticks out her hand in Sam’s direction. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name. I’m Buffy Summers.”

“Sam Wilson,” Sam replies, grateful for this small bit of normalcy. To think, he’d been acting like a tourist only a few hours ago, and now his world is full of vampires. And Blade— fuck. He feels light-headed again.

“We’re here looking for an old friend of mine,” Steve is saying, when Sam tunes back in. “Bucky Barnes.”

“Ah, the Winter Soldier,” says Spike.

“Bucky Barnes,” Steve says again. Spike gets a challenging glint in his eye, and Steve clenches his jaw.

“We think maybe he came to Italy to retrace some of his steps,” Sam takes over, before they can come to blows. “This was where he was first captured by HYDRA, so it’s possible that he’s remembering that.”

“If he is, I hope he can handle himself,” Buffy says. “Italy’s vamp central right now.”

“Why?” Steve asks.

Buffy starts explaining about how mystical forces are currently drawing vampires and demons together, but Sam barely follows it. He’s thinking about Blade again. And Dracula. And the Winter— Bucky.

“Did he know about this stuff, too?” he asks Steve.

“Did— what?” says Steve, and Sam realizes that he’s jumped into the middle of the conversation. He probably cut one of them off.

“Sorry,” he says. “I mean, Bucky. Did he know about vampires, and demons, and Dracula, and all that?”

“Oh,” says Steve. He nods. “Yeah, he did.”

“So maybe he’s here for the same reason you are,” Sam suggests to Buffy.

“You think he’s been drawn here to fight vampires?” she asks.

Sam shrugs. “It’s possible. Isn’t it?”

“I don’t— sure,” says Buffy. “I mean, why not?”

“Now that you mention it,” says Spike, “I overheard a couple demons talking about a castle up in the mountains. Said it’s the place to go if you wanna get fixed up.”

“Fixed up?” Steve repeats. “Like a doctor?”

Spike shrugs. “Could be.”

“Or it could be the Initiative again,” Buffy points out. “A trap.”

“Or HYDRA,” Steve says grimly. “Back in my day, they loved experimenting on vampires and demons.”

“Really?” Sam says, but it makes a sick kind of sense when he thinks about it.  

Steve nods. “That’s why the Initiative bugged me so much. It was basically the same thing, just with an American flag on it. Like SHIELD,” he adds in an undertone.

“Then let’s get the bastards,” Spike suggests. “Go up there and crack some heads.”

“Spike, it’s four in the morning,” Buffy points out.

“So?”

“So, the sun’ll be up soon? You know, that big ball of light that tends to set you on fire?”

Sam has to chuckle at her intonation. She sounds just like a girl from California; if he hadn’t seen her kill half a dozen vampires a minute ago, Sam would have thought she was ditzy and superficial, more concerned about painting her nails than fighting the forces of evil.

“Right,” says Spike. “Tomorrow night, then.”

“That’ll give us some time to do some research,” Steve agrees. “Find out if there’s a HYDRA base here, or if it’s something else.”

“I’ll hit the bars again, see if I can squeeze some more info out of the patrons,” says Spike.

“And I’m going to bed,” says Sam. When the others turn to him, surprised, he realizes he didn’t mean to say that out loud. His face heats with embarrassment, but he shrugs it off.

“I’m tired, I don’t have superpowers,” he explains. “I didn’t sign up for any of this.”

“Sam,” says Steve, in that gentle tone that usually means he’s about to suggest something stupid and self-sacrificing. Sure enough— “You can fly home if you want to. I can handle this on my own.”

“No,” Sam sighs. “I’m not leaving you to fight vampires all alone,” he says, and, boy, did he not expect to say that to anyone, ever. “I just need some sleep.”

“Sleep is good,” Buffy agrees. “I’ll get the guys in research mode when they wake up, and then I’m gonna turn in, too. Meet back here tomorrow at sundown?”

They all agree, shake hands again, and Sam follows Steve back to the hotel, feeling more than ever like a tourist in a strange land.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly think this was one of the first Cap fics I ever tried to write, way back in 2015. It's languished in my WIPs folder ever since, until I finally blew the dust off it and finished the fight scene this spring. Since then, it's been mocking me with its incompleteness, but I'm fresh out of ideas; I have no clue what happens next.
> 
> Hit me up in the comments or on ~~Tumblr~~ [Dreamwidth](https://mrs-d.dreamwidth.org/) if you have suggestions and/or want to take this over. I would love to see it finished.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Retrace | written by mrs_d](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17245643) by [Tipsy_Kitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty/pseuds/Tipsy_Kitty)




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